


The Soul's Beloved

by BitterHush, regnumveritatis



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars - Soul Bond AU
Genre: Angst, Consenting Adults, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Luke is VERY hesitant about their age difference, May/December Relationship, NO child grooming, No Pedophilia, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rey searches for Luke when she's grown up, Romance, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-04-30 05:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14490348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterHush/pseuds/BitterHush, https://archiveofourown.org/users/regnumveritatis/pseuds/regnumveritatis
Summary: This is inspired entirely by the lovely Regnumveritatis and is meant to fulfill her AU idea: Luke is a traveling free-lance photographer who has finally resigned himself to a life without a soulmate. But when his mark appears later in life, it feels like he may finally have a chance to find the love he craves. As years pass, however, and he still can't find her - even with her name written on his skin - he begins to again accept an existence with just the love of his family. The bond torments him more, when he finally finds her, only to then realize she is a parentless child, living in abject poverty. Fear, misunderstanding, and distance will keep them apart until Rey grows up and decides to take matters into her own hands.





	1. Luke I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [regnumveritatis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regnumveritatis/gifts).



The la Chureca landfill, Nicaragua, July 21st, 2000

There are times when the scope of humanity is too wide for a lens. Times when the stark, unreal scenes before him stretch beyond the capabilities of his immediate understanding. These are the moments, he has found, that can only be comprehended later, after distance and some semblance of calm have allowed him the opportunity to reassemble the fractured pieces of his soul. 

The amorphous organ has already broken for thousands of individuals, even as it has never belonged to anyone in particular. His fated, if she exists at all, would hopefully be gentler with it.   

Luke feels the familiar ache of these truths as he climbs a rotting heap. Hazy lines of stench and heat rise up from the mountains of trash, compounding the burden of the new sorrows he carries. The _La_ _Chureca_ is not a photographer's dream shoot, but it is a story which needs telling.  

He pauses to re-secure a bandana over his nose and mouth, while also adjusting the weight of the Nikon slung across his back. Sweat trickles down his spine. Several yards above him, vaulting over debris like a lean mountain goat, Cody turns.  

"We're almost there, _s_ _eñor_. Just a little higher." 

It is a slow, treacherous journey that should not be rushed or underestimated. Luke has been warned about the hazards many times. He has also, when first faced with the challenge ahead, considered turning back. Because actually stepping through the shifting, putrid debris, is a visceral experience beyond description.  

There are hypodermic needles, shards of glass, fly-covered animal carcasses, twisted metals, rotting foodstuffs, and clouds of toxic fumes.  

But above it all – picking through the dangers with prodding, desperate motions – there are also people. Many of the scavengers appear to be children.  

 _They_ , are his reason. 

As they reach the soft summit of split-open garbage bags, Luke suppresses the urge to vomit. The height has, somehow, only made the stench worse. No relieving breeze greets them; only the brutal Nicaraguan sun. 

"That is where most of the families live," Cody points to an area below, "And where the social workers built a school, a few years ago." 

A dirt track snakes beside several ramshackle dwellings. The majority appear to have been built out of broken slabs of concrete and sheet metal, although some are more vehicular, constructed from car doors and hoods. Each of the structures looks brittle and temporary, no matter the material. Luke feels like the decayed landscape could consume them all in one great, collapsing swallow.    

He draws his camera bag over a shoulder, unzipping the main compartment while asking, "How many families?" 

Cody crunches closer, coming to stand on an ironing board. "Twelve, that I know of. There are a few more though, along the eastern side of _La_ _Chureca_. But it is more difficult to get there, and the people are not as friendly to visitors." 

Luke wonders if he'll still be breathing at all, by the time he convinces Cody to take him to the very place the young man seems hesitant to discuss. If he suggests it outright, at this moment, Luke is sure his guide will refuse.  

"And the number of children who work and live here?" He asks instead, wiping sweat out of his eyes before raising his camera to shoot.  

Momentarily, it feels like a grave insult, to possess such a valuable instrument in this impoverished place. But he remembers his tool is a magnifying glass, capable of extending the story of these people to populations less remote and broken. 

As Cody explains the sad reality of life here, Luke captures picture after picture of men, women and children, all stooped and searching. Stories without names, they are faces he yearns to commemorate.  

"They salvage what they can for income, and pick through the trash for food. Many _niños_ have to choose between eating or an education." Cody elaborates, "Only those with parents or a guardian are able to have both. Maybe fifty live here, and at least half are orphans."  

“Were you an orphan, Cody?” It sounds indelicate, when Luke speaks it aloud, but he has found these residents are proud of their endurance. More hopeful because of it. 

"Yes, my _papá_ brought us here when I was little. I don't remember my _madre_ , but I was blessed to have an older friend who looked out for me after _papá_ passed. Most _niños_ aren't so lucky." 

"You are a braver man than me," Luke says, meaning it with every fiber of his being. He zooms in on an old woman sweeping trash away from her dwelling. "I'm very glad to have met you, Cody." 

"Me too, _s_ _e_ _ñor_ Luke." Cody chuckles beside him. "I think you are also very brave. Not many _gringos_ come up here, after they first see what it's really like." 

"After they _smell_ it, you mean," Luke laughs along, squinting into his viewfinder as he pans the long camera lens left. The sun glints wickedly off reflective surfaces in the heaps, making the angle he desires difficult to maintain from this location.  

Luke glances at his boots, taking a careful step forward to avoid a pile of something green, and then— 

 _Pain._  

The camera pounds against his chest as it falls out of his hands, taunt on its neck tether. But Luke isn’t aware of this ache. Doesn’t care.  

Because he’s gasping and swearing and pulling his right arm close. Cradling and protecting the limb against the blinding agony – against the crackling, _white-hot_ division of bones, as they splinter beneath skin.  

His flesh has yielded violently, rending and collapsing in one sharp moment. 

 _Something has sliced into_ _me,_ he panics.  

His eyes aren’t working though, because he is rolling back his long shirtsleeve with a shaking hand, gritting his teeth at the thought of some horrible wound beneath the fabric... 

To only find freckled skin.  

Tanned and without blemish, his forearm is straight and whole and _fine_. On fire, but fine.  

Luke doesn't realize he has sunk to his knees, into the green mess he was avoiding, until Cody is next to him, gripping his shoulder in panicked concern.  

"What's wrong?! Where are you hurt?" 

"I don't..." Luke gasps, trying to understand the illogical situation. Failing to comprehend, as he examines his arm from every angle. "I feel like I've _broken_ it." 

Cody reaches for the limb and Luke winces, tilting his torso away. Just the thought of it being _touched_ sends a new wave of pain through him.  

" _Señ_ _or_ , please let me see! The social workers taught us some emergency care." 

He takes a long shuddering breath, aware of every pulsing throb coming from the invisible injury... How it is beginning to pull something taunt inside him, like the strands of a cord are weaving together to replace bone.  

Luke sees the strings of an instrument, as Cody gently prods his appendage. Sees the strings vibrating in tune with each other. He visualizes the blurring _thrum_ of it...  

But it cannot be any instrument he actually knows, because there are only two strings – harmonizing as one, on the same shrieking, broken note. 

 _I'm in shock,_ he thinks.  

"I don't believe you have broken it." Cody assures him, still crouching close. "I have seen breaks before, and this is not the same." 

Somewhere, a distant scrap of knowledge whispers against Luke's conscious.  

The remnants of a tucked away hope resurfaces, like a lost, precious relic being drawn from the ocean's depths – it is the literature he has poured over; the stories he has read; the feelings he has craved and cried over.  

Unfelt. Unknown. _Unanswered_. 

It makes him wonder as he hasn't wondered in years...  

When Luke rolls back the sleeve on his other arm the mark is a blistering thing. Normally a glistening, silver script, it now appears sunburned and tender.  

 _Rey Andor_   

 _"_ _G_ _loriosísimo_ _Señor_ _Santiago,_ _"_ Cody breathes beside him, taking hold of his marked arm before Luke can replace his sleeve, tracing the scrawl with shaking fingers. "You are feeling _her_ pain – your _querida del alma_. She is close, and in great pain!" 

Luke can hardly process, can barely keep up with brisk pace Cody is setting. Because they are descending the garbage mountain like joggers now, heading towards the sad little line of homes.  

He somehow stays upright, while Cody babbles and laughs at his elbow. Most of his words are in Spanish, but sometimes he slaps Luke's back and declares in English,  

 _"There is a Rey here... Yes,_ _I have heard her name... We will ask the_ _Churequeros_ _._ _.. They_ _will_ _help her... It is a b_ _lessed day, to find your_ _querida del alma_ _!"_  

The sweeping old lady does not understand at first, her suspicious gaze darting between the rapidly speaking Nicaraguan and the grimacing gringo. But when Cody says the phrase that Luke is beginning to understand as _soul bond_ , her hard demeanor falls away. It seems like a younger woman is helping them, as she cries and raises her hands to the sky, yelling " _querida del alma!",_ drawing other wary residents out of their own homes.  

Mothers with babies on hips, toddlers in diapers, squinting elderly too infirmed for scavenging – the growing, raucous procession builds and builds, and suddenly Luke realizes _he_ is a sight to see.  

The old woman leads them along the dirt roadway, calling and gesturing for other scavengers to join them. Strangers crowd close, touching and hugging him. They pray and sing and smile like they are the ones who have been offered this impossible happiness, jostling to witness a man marked to another soul.  

He can't help smiling himself, despite the flaring pain and the certainty which is now beginning to settle.  

 _She's badly hurt_ _a_ _nd s_ _he lives here, in this_ _horrible_ _pover_ _ty._   

He feels the cracked, fragile remains of his soul vibrating against the _wrongness_ of it. So unlike any humanitarian torment he has felt before, this must be the true breaking of his being. Anything else, _everything_ else, in his thirty-seven years of living suddenly seems meaningless. 

It is impossible, he realizes – to exist this way. To feel an incomprehensible sadness, and at the same time a pounding, persistent thrum of bliss so acute it actually has a _taste_.  

Suddenly, the trash is gone. The oppressive heat has lifted. The desperate, celebrating people guiding him toward his destiny fade away.  

And all that is left is the good.  

 _I've found her._ _Finally_ _, I've found her._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The La Chureca was a very-real landfill which was open in Nicaragua for several decades. More visuals and info can be found here:   
> https://expertvagabond.com/la-chureca-managua-photos
> 
> *The Spanish phrase "querida del alma" means "the soul's beloved".


	2. Chapter 2

Three hours later, Hospital Manolo Morales Peralta, Nicaragua

She is malnourished and broken. 

She is perfect. 

She is a _child_. 

Luke watches Rey sleep from his hospital chair, not daring to do anything else yet. He runs his thumbs over the wooden bracelet they removed from her wrist, trying, yet again, to _adhere_ himself to this moment. Because, even after an hour of searching, driving, and then treatment, reality still hasn’t had enough time to settle. His foundations feel brittle, like those of a building post-earthquake.  

There aren’t enough words or tears for this. His love… the woman he has waited long years for… 

 _She is a child._  

A nurse bustles past the open curtain and Luke wipes his cheeks again, tracing the crude carving of Santiago in his hands. It is _hers_ – an amulet meant to venerate the Catholic saint of laborers and pilgrims, as Cody has explained. For Luke, the haggard visage of St. James looks more like an anchor. He grips it all the tighter. 

 _This has happened. She is real. Rey is real._  

At some point, the attending nurse decided it was acceptable to leave him alone with her, even as the Nicaraguan woman had first been suspicious. Cody bitterly tried to explain, when they arrived at the hospital, that it was Rey’s origins that made the medical personnel hesitant to treat her. If there hadn't been such urgency in that horrible moment, as the child in his arms wailed and Cody cursed and translated the doctors poorly-veiled excuses, Luke may have done something more violent and regrettable. In the end, a hard slap of currency against the nearest doctor’s chest had changed things.  

But Luke knows the medical team’s wariness is not only discriminatory and financial. Unlike the _c_ _hurequeros_ who exalted the blessed escape of one of their youngest from poverty, the staff here seem to acknowledge the unsaid danger. He has caught their furtive glances and the mirrored, questioning fear in their dark eyes: _what will happen to this_ _innocent_ _child, now that she is bonded to an old_ _er_ _, American_ _man?_  

He watches Rey breathe and contemplates the roiling fear of it himself. Exhaustion from trauma and the morphine overtook her about fifteen minutes ago, though he only knows this by checking the time on his phone. Blessedly, the pain killers have eased the phantom ache in his own limb as well.  

It is a marvel and a torment, to watch her little lips puff shaky breaths against a pillow. Dark, tangled hair spills around her head and grime clouds her cheeks and hands. The cast the doctor set over her right forearm is stark white against tanned skin and dirty clothes.   

Aside from this hurried, rescuing gesture – from digging her out of the nightmarish trash collapse that had swelled over the van she called home in _La_ _Chureca_ , Luke doesn’t know what else he is supposed to do now. 

Because this is nothing like the stories he’s read; nothing like the fairytale he had concocted for himself, when he was young and had dreamed of love like other little boys dreamt of adventure. He had wished beyond the capacity of most children his age, desiring the kind of belonging that _burn_ _ed_ and forged one’s being into half of a greater whole.  

Like the delicate marks that blessed his aunt and uncle in their own incandescent happiness, he had always wanted the rare, volatile gift that was a soul bond.  

But now that she’s finally here in front of him… the other half which is supposed to complete them both... 

 _We’re_ _thirty-two years apart._  

He manages to hold back the selfish sob this time, forcing himself to straighten and sober and view the situation with a bit more distance.  

Despite all his hesitation and confusion, his own fate is starting to feel like a secondary concern somehow. The echoing, vibrating cords he recognized when her arm first broke  _thrum_ above the pain and questions he harbors, as if they are now intent on binding her welfare to his own.  

They pull at him, reverberating like silent entreaties – reminding him, with whispering intensity, that no matter how confused and lecherous he currently feels, a greater, unexplainable fate demands his cooperation.  

He almost can’t breath, for the immense responsibility of it. 

The sacrifices he imagines himself making, to help this troubled, little person through the rest of her life, flutter before him like pictures on a screen. The actions are wide and varied and needed, and although Luke cannot claim to fully understand them yet, he knows that he should and so he _will_. 

He rises from the corner chair, finally daring to come close enough to touch her again. It is still strangely soothing to be this near… even as he remains on the edge of touch.  

He hesitates, before letting a single finger draw a wisp of hair off her cheek, skimming her temple in the process and again– 

 _Perfect,_ _thorough_ _warmth. Like_ _consuming_ _sunlight_ _itself._  

When he first cradled her whimpering body against his chest, the same feeling coursed through him. It was peace and harmony, as if he had been reunited with a contentment he never realized he had lost. 

In the next moment, the ragged _wrongness_ of finding her so young and unprepared had felt all the more bitter – because her bright, widened eyes had looked up at him with the same realization: _you feel like all the comfort I’ll ever need._  

 _"_ _T_ _u_ _eres_ _mi_ _ángel_ _de la_ _guarda_ _,_ _"_ She had breathed, with a reverence he could never possibly deserve. 

Luke knows that with the strange strength coursing through his heart he _could_ find a way to father, nurture, and sacrifice the last of his hopeful dream for the pursuit of her care. He could abandon and forsake everything he has ever envisioned for himself, like tossing sand into a retreating wave.  

Yet slowly and certainly, he also knows, the effort will break him apart. For as she grows, so will he. The valley between them will widen, until she herself will face this same torment, but in reverse. He will be  _old,_ and she will surely be beautiful and _alive_ and deserving of so much more.  

 _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be._  

He swears his fingertip is actually _humming_ , where it rests against her temple. For all her fitful pain, Rey sighs in her sleep.  

"You feel like sunshine, my little Rey..." he whispers despite himself, feeling the strange, grasping urge to tuck her against his chest and sing her into a deeper sleep.  

The sheer _power_ of that urge compels him, finally, to decide. 

 _No_ , he cannot bring himself to be her guardian.  

But he will not leave her here either. 

There is little privacy beyond the thin curtain that surrounds Rey’s treatment bed. Patients moan and murmur throughout the open length of room, sounding more like ghosts than people.  

Luke steps out into the imitation of a hallway, finally knowing what he must do though the _how_ of it remains foggy. Cody stands further down the segmented span of fabric but immediately rushes to meet him when their eyes meet. 

“How is she? Do you need anything, señor?” 

“Just some time to make a call,” Luke exhales, patting his guide’s shoulder. He’ll never be able to adequately thank the young man for being so adamant about Rey’s care. “Would you mind staying with her until I’m done, please? I’ll be right out here.” 

“ _Sí_ , _sí_ , of course.” 

Luke watches Cody dart between the curtained wall, fabric guttering in his wake, and then he dials and starts pacing. 

Four rings in and he’s sure she must be caught up in another dinner meeting, but then her voice breaks through, breathy and apologetic. 

“Luke, are you there?” 

“Yeah, can you hear me?” 

“Yes. Nearly missed you though,” Leia speaks from a distance, as if she’s put him on speaker phone. “How is everything going down there? Are you still planning on flying back in a few days?” 

Somehow, he keeps his voice from shaking apart. 

“Leia I’m sorry... but if you can, I need to talk privately.”  

He hears a shuffle, voices dimming and mumbling out of range. The clarification narrows and then she’s back. 

“Luke, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” 

Suddenly, it’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees on the cracked tile. Thankfully, a doctor exits a curtain-room, side-stepping close to him. The distraction helps Luke refocus on his surroundings. On the pendant in his hand. 

“I found _her_.”  

The silence feels like joy. He can almost hear Leia’s stunned exhalation, before it actually courses through the line.  

“ _Oh my God_. Rey? You found _Rey_?!” 

“Yes, but Leia there’s–” 

“In _Nicaragua_?! You’re still in Nicaragua, right? How did it happen? Were you working? Or did you check the local registry? How do they–” 

“ _Leia_ ,” he pleads.  

How he'll ever be able to explain it all feels impossible. Above all else now, he needs her expertise and console. Her thousand, detailed questions can wait. 

She sobers, tone dropping. “I’m sorry, Luke. Tell me.” 

“Leia… Rey isn’t what I thought she’d be… isn’t what _we’d_ thought she’d be. She’s just a _child_.” 

This time, the quiet hum of dead air between them feels more like a vacuum, hollow and lightless. Almost as if their cellular connection has dropped.  

This future is one they’ve both discussed at length, because Leia, for all her hard-nosed, professionalism in foreign affairs, is a dreamer like him. They’ve wondered about Rey Andor together, many, many times before. 

“Oh, Luke… how can this _be?”_  

“I don’t know. But she’s alive, and she’s only _five_. And I only found her because she broke her arm while I was nearby and felt the pain of it myself. The locals helped me dig her out of a trash pile… Leia, we need to get her out of here. This place, where she's been  _living_ …” 

He chokes on the horror of it – the impossible weight of empathy that is somehow now both seen and _felt_. It's almost as if Rey’s struggles have begun to weave themselves under his skin.  

Leia is crying, though she is trying to hide it. Her tears have always triggered his own, and Luke loves her all the more for fighting to suppress them.  

“We will figure this out together, Luke. It will be okay. I will find a way.” 

“Okay...” he lets out a shaky breath. 

“It may take time, but we will get Rey out of there directly. And if that becomes too difficult, I think I can reconnect with someone who handles international adoptions.”  

Though well-meaning and the only potential which makes any logical sense now, the offer somehow feels like a slap.  

“Leia, I _can’t_ adopt her… I’m falling _apart_.” Luke scrubs a hand over his wet face, wanting privacy in this humid, compressed space but needing honesty so much more. “I feel like I’ve already committed a horrible sin, just by looking at her and trying to see what she might look like one day… and there is an affinity between us, a tension I can actually _feel_ – like the kind we’ve read about with other bonds – and it _terrifies_ me. We are a whole lifetime apart...”  

Leia listens to him shutter for a long moment and he knows it is all she can do to sound strong when she speaks again. The determination in her voice is more ambassador than sister now.  

"I will take her then." 

"Leia, _no_." Somehow, this scenario is so much worse. "I would never ask that of you or expect it. How could you ever explain it to Han, or Jaina and Jacen – when they were old enough to realize that Uncle Luke is _marked_ to their adoptive sister? Or explain it to Rey, for that matter? She'll know my name by the time she can read." 

The _repulsion_ of it... of imagining a little girl growing up and being led to believe he was only her loving uncle... of then watching her understanding begin to twist and realign as she glanced at her silvery mark and then at him... of seeing her acknowledge the undeniable comfort inherent to their bond, any time they touched...  

Of watching her finally realize that the man she considered family was always meant to be _more_.  

 _No_ , he realizes with a twinge of visceral pain,  _she has to be far, far away from me_ _._  

"We would all be fine, Luke. The precedent for this..." Leia is talking in the background of his thoughts, trying to argue her position with that stalwart legalese he has often conceded to so many times before.  

But not this time.The idea is forming fully now, almost without his own involvement. The tenuous cords of connection whisper a better way forward.  

"No," he urges, cutting her short, "Rey needs to be with someone else. She should have an uncomplicated life, with a person who can love her as a parent and nothing more." 

"Who?" Leia's voice is a murmur, as if she has been jostled back into fear. 

"Could you arrange an adoption for a US soldier stationed abroad?" 

"I'm not sure..." Leia hesitates, and now Luke knows for certain she is holding back. "Luke, you have _time_ to think through this. We don't need to make any hurried decisions right now." 

Another nurse rushes past him, and he grips the pendant in his left hand until it _stings_ against his palm.  

" _This_ is the best way forward. I know it now. Can you do it, Leia?" 

She sucks in a long breath. It is her resignation in his ear, a sound he has heard oh so many times before: the worry she breathes out after he decides to photograph a warzone or area of social unrest. It is both her support and her sadness, quaking through the line. 

"Yes, Luke, I'll find a way." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tu eres mi ángel de la guarda," translates as "You're my guardian angel."


	3. Chapter 3

She watches down the street, elbows on the windowsill, cheek pressed against the glass. It isn’t like a snowy Christmas movie — the window doesn’t fog when she exhales because it’s too hot outside — but she draws invisible letters anyway, writing words in English and then in Spanish. Sometimes, if she can remember the correct _kanji_ , Rey writes in Japanese too.

“Alright, darling, you may come in now!” Her _abuelo_ calls. “Help me finish with the table settings.”

Rey scrambles down from her chair perch, running into the dining room; realizing it looks nothing like the room they eat breakfast and dinner in everyday.

Her _abuelo_ leans over the table to set down a tall, white cake, his hair as bright and fluffy as the frosting. Glass beads, wrapped candies, and shells are scattered across the wood surface, while ribbons and balloons in different shades of blue and green hang from the ceiling. The decorations tangle together like tentacles and billowy sea creatures. A silver sign on the wall reads, _Happy 8th Birthday Rey!_

It’s a pretty fish tank of colors and confection. And all for _her_. 

“Well, do you approve of your party, my love?” he asks, wiping both hands on his apron.

“It is so beautiful,” Rey murmurs, running her fingers over the beads. “Can I take a picture of it all before we eat?”

“Of course,” he chuckles, sliding a stack of her favorite china plates towards her, “But help me with these first. Your friend and his family will be arriving soon.”

_My friend. Mi amigo_.

A sparkling feeling grows in Rey’s tummy again, as it does anytime she thinks about Poe. He is her first real friend on the military base because, whatever _abuelo_ says, the other kids at school don’t like her.

She thinks about this problem often. Her _abuelo_ may be an important Colonel who gets to live in a big house and tell other soldiers what to do, (like he’s tried to explain to her, whenever she comes home crying and can’t slip into her room before he sees) but that isn’t the reason. “Chain of command” has nothing to do with it.  

No, Rey has decided the other children don’t include her in their games or lunchtime talks because she’s just different: she doesn’t have parents like they do and she came from a place outside America.

She sets the table carefully while _abuelo_ goes back into the kitchen, turning each plate until the painted turtles and fish look like they are swimming towards the cake. She imagines they are trying to reach a rare, white pearl that smells like lemons and sugar; a hidden, underwater treasure that was lost for centuries until a great tsunami ripped up the seabed and exposed it again.

The doorbell rings, chiming through her fantasy.

“Will you please answer that, darling?”

Rey bounds through the hallway, trying to forget the bad parts of what the bell still reminds her of, even now.

_The before-time: of hearing far away church bells and wisps of anguished prayer from her people; of being small and hungry and usually alone; of Santiago on her wrist, her only, silent protector._

_Until… until..._

She exhales in the entryway and peeks through the side window like _abuelo_ has taught her to do.

“Happy Birthday!” A small group cries as she pulls the front door open, Poe the loudest of the three. His parents, a uniformed man with very short hair and a beautiful lady in a flower skirt, stand behind him.

Poe hands her a wrapped box while stepping into the house. “You are _really_ going to like what I got you.”

His _papá_ , who Rey hasn’t met yet, shakes her hand as he enters. “Miss San Tekka, thank you for inviting us to your home and your party.”

“Thank you for coming, but my name is Rey _Andor_ , Sir.”

She says it before she can make the correction sound less like pain. As much as she loves her _abuelo_ , if she starts forgetting her _real_ name, she is afraid her angel may one day forget her too.

“I’m sorry, Miss Andor,” The marine nods after a moment.

The others go quiet around him, and she thinks his eyes have been on her outstretched arm, looking at the smudged beginnings of a soul mark that hasn’t yet bloomed into words. Maybe this is another reason why she can’t make friends? she thinks. Nobody she has known in this place has any kind of strange mark like this, besides her  _abuelo,_ of course.

“What a strong, beautiful name to have.” Poe’s _mamá_ says, offering her arms for a hug. Rey steps into the embrace, glad to escape her own rudeness. “Rey means ‘king’ in _español_ , and I believe Andor means ‘brave’, though I can’t recall the language of origin.”

“Mama, where does my name come from again?” Poe asks, toeing his shoes off.

Rey feels Mrs. Dameron chuckle, the woman’s curly hair tickling her cheek. “Today is for Rey, my little _pavo_ _real_. You know your family history backwards and forwards already.”

“Peacock?” Rey giggles, translating the woman’s words and catching Poe’s proud smirk. Even though she’s only known him for a few weeks, she thinks the name _does_ suit him. His school uniform never gets rumpled or grass stained, and she’s sure he combs his hair more than she ever does.

“Well, hello all! Welcome!”

Her _abuelo_ beckons them down the hallway and waves away Mr. Dameron’s salute with a smile.

“You are our guests tonight, so let’s all put aside rank, shall we? I hope you’re prepared for a culinary experience — we’ll be trying several of Rey’s Japanese favorites for dinner.”

He reaches out to pat Poe’s shoulder when the boy slowly asks, “Is it _sushi…_ or other raw things?”

“No, no, dear boy, not this evening.” Her abuelo shakes his head, “I’ve made sure everything is cooked and piping hot. Except for, of course, the _sake_. Would you care for some, Mr. and Mrs. Dameron?”

They all move into the kitchen, filling drinks and leaning over the wonderful dishes her _abuelo_ has been preparing throughout the day. The beef _yakimono_ bubbling on the stovetop smells like heaven to Rey, and the others agree, but the greatest gift of all is seeing him talk like this with people outside of work. His formality and white uniform are gone, and his eyes are crinkling in a good way. She wonders if he could be like this all the time, if they ever moved to the seaside town where he used to live in England.

When the adults start talking about the most recent tsunami drills on the base, she is relieved to have Poe bump against her elbow. They slip out into hallway, and Poe pauses as they pass her _abuelo’s_ study. The wall behind his desk is covered with newspaper stories, shiny plaques, and old photographs of planes. She understands his interest — she herself has spent hours in there sounding out the engraved words on the awards, when first learning English — but she tugs him towards the living room now. The study is full of work and old memories, and she is finally happy to agree that today is _hers_.

At some point, Poe has grabbed her present again. He puts it back into her hands as they sit down cross-legged on the rug.

“Shouldn’t we wait for them though?” Rey wonders aloud, switching to Spanish.

“Your grandpa won’t mind.” Poe urges, “And if you open it now, maybe we can finish building it before I leave tonight.”

This intrigues her, because she _loves_ the feeling of parts in her hands and the satisfaction of making something. Besides prayer, it was what she most looked forward to in the before-time: taking electronics apart, learning how everything worked, and then putting it all back together again.

She carefully peels away the shimmery paper, flipping the box over and beaming.

“It looks just like BeeBee!”

“I knew you’d like it,” Poe grins, scooting closer. “There’s a bunch of little parts, so it’s going to take us awhile.”

She tips the contents onto the floor and hundreds of slim, wooden panels spill everywhere. When carefully assembled and glued in place, she realizes it will become a life-sized parrot statue, complete with perch. Rey’s delighted to also find a paint set included with the jigsaw puzzle.

As they begin on the bird’s wooden legs, she thinks about how thoughtful this gift is. She first met Poe when his pet macaw, BeeBee, escaped from their house and crashed into one of her bushes. As she untangled it from the leaves, the brilliant red bird had surprised her further by squawking _ocho ocho ocho_! Clearly upset, Rey had tried to soothe the creature by counting along, only to soon hear someone else speaking behind her. She had turned around to find a boy with wide, brown eyes, a crooked smile, and just like her, Spanish on his tongue.

_Mi_ _amigo_ , Rey thinks once more, peaking up at Poe as he concentrates on gluing two pieces together. If only for this and her _abuelo’s_ happiness, she is glad to have a real birthday party like all the other children in her neighborhood.

They are almost halfway through the puzzle when their parents call them into the dining room.

“Are we all hungry? Or should we open gifts first?” Abuelo asks as their guests sit down, resting his hands on Rey’s shoulders. “Birthday girl, what do you say?”

“Dinner, please.” she urges, hunger winning out.

Her abuelo has taught her a lot about food since adopting her: mostly, its importance and that she will never want for it again, but also that different cultures can be better understood through what and how they eat. Everything he has cooked at home or had her try when they’ve explored the surrounding city of Okinawa has tasted amazing to Rey, and tonight is no different.

Abuelo explains the ingredients in each dish as he brings the courses to the table, and she can’t help smiling a little as she watches Poe sniff and delicately put food onto his fork or spoon. Yet just like her and the adults who voice their appreciation beside her, everything he eventually tries seems to please him.

“What is this one called again,” Poe asks around a mouthful, pointing at a steaming hot pot.

Her abuelo smiles and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“ _Sōki soba_ , which essentially means ‘pork rib noodles’, and may sometimes be called _Okinawa_ _soba_ by the locals. They have made _soba_ quite their own, and to delicious effect, don’t you agree?”

Poe nods emphatically, reaching out to spoon more of the broth and noodles into his bowl. “Kind of like how mama makes her _kak-ik_ a little differently.”

“Yes, just like your mother’s cooking, I’m sure. Though I’m admittedly unfamiliar with _kak-ik_. Is it a Guatemalan dish, Mrs. Dameron?”

Rey listens as Poe’s _mamá_ explains the long history and recipe behind a very tasty sounding turkey soup, all the while watching her abuelo’s head tilt with interest. He gets up to retrieve a pen and paper for the recipe and has already come back when a phone rings down the hall.

“Oh dear, that sounds like the private line. I’m so sorry. Will you please excuse me?”

They all nod happily and when her abuelo is out of the room Mrs. Dameron asks, “So, Poe tells us you are are a very good mechanic, Rey. You fixed his bike chain a few days ago?”

Rey sips her soup, trying not to squirm under the returning attention. “Yes, I like fixing things.”

“Maybe when you grow up you can fix and fly fighter jets, just like _mamá_ does.” Poe offers, taking a long drink of water.

Rey thinks this would be very interesting and has actually considered it before, but she instead says to his _mamá_ , “I also like putting words together. I mean, I like learning different languages at school. It reminds me of a huge puzzle…”

“Languages too? This is very good.” Mrs. Dameron’s nods appreciatively. “It is important to explore lots of interests when you are young, and you are certainly blessed to be in the perfect place for learning all of the things your heart desires, _carinõ.”_

“It really is — I grew up on a military base too,” Mr. Dameron puts in. He’s pushed his bowl aside and holds a blue and white sake glass between both hands now. “It was like growing up in another world sometimes because of all the rules, but my brothers and I never got bored.”

For a moment, Rey tries to imagine a boy who probably looked like Poe but was surely taller and more serious.

“Did your family live in Japan too?” she asks.

“We mostly moved around US bases but my father took a few other stations over the years — Spain, England, Greece. I saw the world young and always hoped our children could do the same one day.”

He reaches for his wife’s hand, and the two smile at one another, sharing a look that Rey has only ever seen movie couples make. It is what real, in-love _mamás_ and _papás_ are supposed to look like together, she decides. The ache of not having her own parents is only lessened by Poe’s good fortune at having both of his.

Beside her, slumped back in his chair and oblivious to her thoughts, Poe groans out loud, “May I use the restroom, please?”

“Are you unwell?” Mrs. Dameron frowns, lowering her spoon.

“I’m fine. Just noodle stuffed, I think. May I be excused?”

Rey suppresses a giggle as his parents share a grin and agree. Her friend slides dramatically off his chair, plodding into the hallway.

“Well that is certainly _your_ son.” Mrs. Dameron chuckles, patting her husband’s hand. “A traveler of new bathrooms and countries alike.”

“I cannot argue with that, _mi_ _alma_.” He laughs, raising his glass in a toast. “May Poe and Rey always have good food, good company and good places to explore.”

_“¡Salud!”_ Mrs. Dameron agrees warmly.

The three clink glasses, and for long, happy moment, it almost feels like Rey is truly part of their little family.

* * *

She has been so grateful and immersed in the wonderful party her _abuelo_ prepared — losing track of time and all sense of her everyday worries as she ate lemon raspberry cake, unwrapped books and LEGOs, and finished building the wooden parrot while their parents watched and talked — that she nearly forgot the greatest gift of all. The one she always gets at bedtime: the one that means the most to both her past and her present.

Rey brushes her teeth quickly and tugs pajamas on, calling, “I’m ready!” through her bedroom door. As he has done for her sixth and seventh birthday before, _abuelo_ brings a small, white package into her room. He sits down beside her on the bed and asks,

“Did you have a good time, darling?”

“It was my favorite birthday ever!” She throws both arms around him, squeezing close. “I think I know why BeeBee likes the number _ocho_ so much now.”

His laughter rumbles against her ear, “A very astute observation, my love. Perhaps the parrot is right, for your eighth birthday has been my favorite as well. Although, in truth, every new year of your life is my absolute favorite.”

“Astute?” she questions, feeling the unfamiliar word on her tongue. _Abuelo_ is always teaching her new, English words.

“It means to assess a situation correctly.”

She smiles against his warm chest, finally pulling away if only to accept the present she can no longer ignore.

“Is it astute to guess that the box is for me?”

He chuckles, “Yes, well met. You are always very astute, my little wonder.”

He places the tiny box into her hands and she lifts the lid, reaching into the waves of pale tissue paper. Something smooth and cool touches her fingers.

“Oh, _me encanta_!” she gasps, cradling the slender, glass figurine of an angel. “Thank you!”

Swirled within the glass, in pinks and reds and ivory, are patches of opaque color which resemble the fabric of a dress. The angel’s wings and halo are crystal clear except for flecks of gold shimmering around the edges.

Rey runs her fingers over the precious facets of the praying angel’s face, saying a silent prayer of her own.

_Blessed Father, thank you for all the gifts you have bestowed upon me today and every day of my life. Thank you for my abuelo, for Poe, and for the real angel you sent me in la chureca. Please help me remember him better. Amen._

When she looks up at her _abuelo_ , his eyes have become watery.

“What’s wrong, _abuelo_?” she worries, moving back into his arms.

“Nothing at all, dearest. I am just so incredibly happy to have found you.”

She grins as well, scooting up to her headboard and asking, “Tell me the story again, please?”

He pulls the covers over her legs and smooths them down, drawing back so he can see her face.

“Ah, yes, our favorite story. Hmmm, where to begin though…” he hums for a long moment, pretending to think.

“Tell me, abuelo!” she giggles, moving her thumbs over the angel. Tonight, she won’t put it with the other saints she has lined up on her bookshelf; she wants to hold it while she sleeps.

“Well, I suppose it all started when I decided to take a long vacation in Central America. I had been amassing my vacation time, you see, and if I did not use it I would lose it, as they say.” He taps her nose playfully. “I intended to begin my long, road-bound journey at the Panama Canal — there is a bit of US Naval history there, you see. Five submarines and a few P-38 Lightenings were housed there throughout the—”

“Abuelo!” she interrupts, fond of the rambling game he likes to play throughout this story, but also getting more and more tired by the minute.  

“Very well, my love,” he chuckles. “After enjoying a number of its historical and cultural sights, I journeyed by road through Panama to then enjoy the majesty of the rainforests in Costa Rica — I will take you there one day — before traveling into a geologically active area of Nicaragua. Fancying myself an intrepid explorer, I had always been very intent on viewing, and perhaps climbing, an active volcano. And Concepción was indeed a sight to behold, as well as a very exhaustive climb.”

She pictures the photo from his study, of her thoughtful _abuelo_  standing on a green mountainside, his darker hair blown back, cheeks red, and his face less lined with age.

“And then?” she prompts.

“And then, both the worst and best moments of my life happened: I became terribly ill with malaria. I was taken to a local clinic before being transferred to a larger hospital in Managua a few days later.”

Rey rolls onto her side, waiting for his hardships to end and the wonderful part of the story to unfold. She can’t help remembering her own blurred memories from that time as well: of being frightened and in pain and in a hospital bed for many, many days; of being tended to by women she did not know; of speaking crying words with a young man from _la chureca_. Most blurry and joyful of all though, is the image of her angel’s sad blue eyes watching over her; his hair like a pale, messy halo.

“You were so tiny, my dearest, but also so very strong and brave.” _Abuelo_ murmurs, brushing hair behind her ears. “The first time I was well enough to walk the halls outside my room, I saw you eating in a common area. You were trying so hard to use a fork with your broken arm, even as the cast was hindering you. Such determination and focus I had never seen in a child before.”

“And then?”

“Well, then it was as if I understood everything all in one moment.” He smiles. “My existence, my own heartache, my journeys. It had all seemed to finally mean something greater because I realized it had been guiding me towards adopting a very special girl. I knew, somehow, that you needed a family just as much as I did.”

Rey lets the words sink into her skin, wishing she and her _abuelo_ had found each other much, much sooner but also overwhelmingly grateful to have him now. She pulls the comforter up to her chin, watching him smile at a spot on the blue fabric.

“Are you sure you never saw my angel?” she whispers, already knowing his answer but still holding onto the hope that he will someday affirm her memories of the quiet, kind savior who pulled her from a trash pile and made sure she was healed and protected. 

He looks up, sadness crinkling his own pale gaze again. “I wish I had, dearest, but I believe whoever you saw was there for you and you alone.”

She feels the bed relax as _abuelo_ stands. He hovers over her for a moment to plant a kiss in her hair and then shuffles towards the door, turning on a light projector that dots her ceiling with constellations.

“Happy Birthday and sweet dreams, my dear one.” he murmurs, flicking off the lamp and pulling the door shut.

“Goodnight,” she says sleepily, watching the tiny points of starlight slowly shift overhead; tucking the glass angel under her chin and reciting her quiet, nightly prayers with all the gratitude she can conjure.

At the end, as always, she thinks,  _And please, Lord Heavenly Father, help me to never forget my blessings._


End file.
